Wood and Strings
by SylvanDreamer
Summary: Oneshot. Deidara is on the brink of death. Sasori finds this unacceptable. SasoDei.


**Summary**: Deidara is on the brink of death. Sasori finds this unacceptable.

**Disclaimer**: Naruto is owned by Masashi Kishimoto.

The plot of this story was inspired by 'Flesh and Blood' by Kantayra which is seriously the most epic SasoDei story I have ever read and this oneshot cannot even compare.

I wanted to just post this on my livejournal first but apparently the post was too large and I don't want to cut it or anything so I'm posting it here instead. T_T Rated for, um, reference to sex scene I guess? Just a reference though. Also rated for language.

_Italicized parts_ are flashbacks.

**Wood and Strings**

"Art is long and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave."

- o -

There are storms everywhere. There is the one outside Sasori's window that Deidara is happily observing. There is the one outside Sasori's door that Sasori is pointedly ignoring.

Deidara sits in front of the lone window in Sasori's room, body too unnaturally still and the only thing indicating he is alive is the glitter in that one blue eye as it drinks in the sight of the storm outside. Deidara loves storms. They are explosive and destructive and this one reminds him of himself as a child, with the wind darting about and pelting every dry corner with rain. It snapped at branches, unearthed roots, upended trunks, and the resulting chaos was art.

Behind him, Sasori continues to work, calm and methodical while Hidan storms away outside his door.

"- GODDAMN FUCKING PUPPET WHAT THE _FUCK_ HAVE YOU DONE? THIS IS THE WORST FUCKING FORM OF BLASPHEMY I HAVE EVER - "

Sasori simply taps a wooden arm lightly into place as Hidan starts pounding at the door, his screams getting surprisingly louder, this time drowning out Kakuzu's unsuccessful attempts at placating him.

" – _WHY?_ OH JASHIN I ACTUALLY THOUGHT YOU _FELT _SOMETHING FOR HIM? NOT EVEN THE LOWEST MAGGOT IN ALL THE LANDS WOULD DO WHAT YOU - "

Like the storm outside the window, it takes hours for Hidan to quiet down. Both storm and Hidan eventually slink away, spent, like disobedient little children.

It is then that Deidara breaks silence with a small sigh of enjoyment. And perhaps the merest trace of longing. This is joined a second later by the quiet clinking as Sasori tidies up. Deidara does not have to turn around to know that though those hands are busy, the blood-rust gaze is fixed unwavering on him. Is there sorrow, six feet under those inscrutable eyes? If there is, he chooses to ignore it. The clinking stops.

It is a long while before Sasori speaks. "Do you want to go outside?"

"…Un."

Raising slender fingers, the puppetmaster manipulates chakra strings and Deidara's body rises and walks to the door. The movement is still a little clumsy – he is not used to the ebb and flow, angles and curves, dips and swells of Deidara's body. He follows closely behind Deidara. Nobody is outside.

They encounter Kisame along the hallway who stops in his tracks, blue face paling to almost-white. There is a very real fear running the length of his eyes as he observes Deidara-before-Sasori. Deidara merely snorts at the swordsman as Sasori urges him past. Sasori does not even pay attention to Kisame.

Always, always it is only Deidara in his line of sight.

- o -

_That was the longest night of Sasori's life. What did the damn brat think he was doing anyway, taking an attack that was meant for Sasori? Deidara had no right to insert his body between Sasori and a jutsu that was _clearly _meant for Sasori. All through the long trek back to headquarters, the only thing that Sasori can think of is that Deidara is _not_ allowed to die. The brat will pay for taking that jutsu. He cannot help but shake a little at the thought of Deidara's unconscious body atop Hiruko. The brat will live to pay. He _will_. _

- o -_  
_

Deidara laughs and Sasori twitches.

For all his fine technique, for all his impeccable control at the slightest movement of his fingers, he is utter shit at this. He glares at the slimy clay all over his hands as though it has wronged him grievously. In a way, it actually has. He sits rigid while he waits for Deidara to stop laughing. Goddamn brat.

The chuckles fade and Deidara tries again. "It's all in the pressure of your hands, Sasori-danna," the blond chirps, smile bright. "And you have to move them slowly, un. _Slowly_. You're not masturbating a dick, un. You can't expect it to curve to the shape you want if your pressure is too heavy."

He snarls at the dick comment and tugs at one of his chakra strings. There is a resultant "Ow!" as Deidara feels the sharp force pull at his hair. He scowls. "Can't take criticism, huh, un?" his voice turns sly. "Or don't tell me Sasori-danna doesn't even _know_ how to do _that_?"

Must he be so vulgar? Sasori despairs. Apparently, even traumatic body-changing events will never change some aspects of Deidara. It is pathetic how grateful Sasori is for this. The only thing he says though is, "I'm well aware of the finer points of jerking off, brat."

But perhaps Deidara understands the unsaid anyway (he always has, that keen perception hidden beneath Bang!s and deceptive blonde dumbness). Deidara snickers and urges, "C'mon, try it again Sasori-danna."

He concentrates on the lump of clay in front of him, trying not to think about the fact that Deidara has only started calling him 'Sasori-danna' again two weeks ago. Before that (_months_ before that) it had been 'Sasori' in a voice that was deader than Hidan's conscience. But even _that_ had been preferable to when Deidara had not been speaking at all, had only lapsed time in stifling silence that would have driven lesser shinobi to suicide.

Sasori thinks that if Deidara had been in control of his own body, he _would_ have committed suicide. It is a lucky thing that Sasori's selfishness trumps Deidara's despair.

His foot starts moving on the pedal and the pottery wheel starts turning. Once again, he applies pressure (_gently_) on the clay in front of him. It had been three hours and the uncooperative lump simply refuses to conform to Sasori's desires and turn into a plate. This is rather galling as the room they are in is filled with Deidara's clay sculptures, done with an ease and dramatic flair that Sasori finds insulting to his apparently non-existent sculpting talents. Deidara has done birds, spiders, centipedes, all lovely with exacting details down to the tiniest limbs and Sasori cannot sculpt one fucking plate.

"Too heavy again, un, danna!"

His circle is now… a blob. Deidara laughs as Sasori's hand falls heavily and crushes the gooey lump.

He does not say it but satisfaction curls around him at the warming sound of Deidara's laughter. He'd been denied it so long. It was interesting how you could live with something for so long and not even realize how necessary it was to you. Sasori drinks it up greedily. He has… missed this.

He glances at the clay, still essentially shapeless and realizes that it doesn't matter that his artistic pride has been somewhat sacrificed because of this.

Because Deidara is still laughing. Sasori closes his eyes and listens.

- o -

_Sasori's poison can only keep Deidara's broken body in stasis for so long. For one terrible moment, looking at the unmoving form liberally doused with blood, Sasori does not know what to do. But then his chakra is pulsing and despite all odds so is Deidara's and he pushes aside all doubts-fears-emotions and plunges himself headfirst into his art. Steady hands make the first slice with the scalpel._

- o -

" – mistake me for one of your goddamned _puppets_, un! You had no right, _no right_, to do that!"

Deidara is seething and appropriately enough, thunder is gathering on the horizon. They will make it to the Akatsuki base before the rain falls, Sasori thinks dimly. He runs his hand on his robe, still damp with the blood of shinobi who had foolishly trailed them and launched a surprise attack five miles back.

He reminds himself to be patient but Deidara's voice grates on said patience and Deidara's words have uncomfortable ways of wriggling under Sasori's skin.

"I did not have a choice," he evenly says.

"The fuck do you think I'm stupid?" the blonde snarls. "How many fucking puppets do you have again, un? Puppets whose techniques you know in and out and you could've pulled _any one of them_ out and those damned shinobi were fucking wusses anyway, un! _Why_ didn't you use them, un? Why did you have to use – " _Me_.

Deidara's voice breaks and he gulps it down and everything is too wavery for him to continue but he does not have to. Sasori knows what he was going to say.

"You were already there. If I had to get a puppet from one of my scrolls it would have taken far too much time – "

"_Seconds,_ un!" Deidara shrieks and birds flee from trees. "It takes fucking seconds for you to pull your puppets out, un, I should know! You're saying that you didn't have seconds – "

"Do you realize, brat, what skilled shinobi are capable of doing in 'seconds'?" his voice is turning cold and mocking and patience has apparently returned to hibernation.

"Skilled shinobi my ass, un!" the growl is low and deep. "If those kids weren't genin you can just shoot me now and leave me for dead! You're saying _genin_ and _chuunin_ could have killed us in _seconds_, un? Or are you just saying you can't even handle a couple of kids playing at ninja, un!"

Sasori's eyes were filled with the chill of the desert night as he released his words. "Oh, I believe I can handle 'a couple of kids playing ninja'. But what about you, Deidara?" the ball is rolling and Sasori realizes too late that he cannot stop the poison-soft words escaping from his lips. "If I had left you there, could _you_ have defeated mere genin and chuunin?"

Months of careful tact and deliberation, of showing the gentleness that none had ever witnessed, all blown away at the way Deidara's pales and never before has Sasori so ruthlessly shoved his helplessness to his face.

Rouge splotches the pale face as an anger too great for words overcomes Deidara. Sasori keeps his silence – he has gone too far, he knows it and it cannot be undone or sandpapered off. One thing Deidara is right about – he is not Sasori's puppet. Hatred blazes turning blue eyes into fire and if Deidara had control of his own limbs Sasori knew he would either be dead or Deidara would turn and flee and Sasori would never see him again.

Though he will never, ever say it out loud Sasori is glad Deidara cannot walk away.

Water tapping on his skin makes Sasori blink. It seems the rain has caught up with them after all.

- o -

_He has admired Deidara's form many times before – sleeping, training, eating, in the heat of battle – but up close is even better. Despite the wounds, the torn chunks of flesh, the charred skin, bones askew and the bitter scent of almost-death Deidara is beautiful. Sasori is an artist quite possibly the greatest puppeteer who ever existed but not even he can save all of Deidara's body. He salvages what he can, the parts he knows Deidara will almost certainly miss. He finishes suturing in the artificial heart and carefully balances Deidara's old, living, torn heart. Did this heart ever beat for him?_

- o -

The Cloud nin were annoyingly persistent, Itachi thinks detachedly while he watches his perfectly executed fire jutsu devouring their flesh and bones. He senses more of them coming from the west, and he turns and leaps, hands readying to form the seals. The words die on his lips and Sharingan-spinning eyes widen only slightly at the sight in front of him.

He has seen Sasori fight hundreds of times, has even sparred with him on occasion. He has seen Sasori and Deidara fight together as a team and has always thought there was a certain grace to the way their abilities complemented each other's. He has never seen anything like _this_.

Sasori is standing at the center and his expression was almost _serene_. All around him were explosions and the flying limbs of Cloud nin as he effortlessly held back the new wave on his own. Gleaming chakra strings were attached to Deidara's body and as Sasori manipulates his partner (_former partner_, Itachi knows he should think but Sasori always equals Deidara and that is the way the universe spins), as he coaxes jutsu after jutsu, sends clay sculptures this way and that with a flick of his fingers that translates to the motion of Deidara's body that hands over death to the unyielding shinobi Itachi is momentarily caught in awe.

A wholly inappropriate thought mists through his mind that if the two of them were having sex this was probably what it would look like – explosive and graceful, with Sasori in complete control and Deidara in complete surrender.

The two of them have always fought well together but _hereandnow_ there is something undefinable that completes them. Although Sasori is controlling him, Deidara moves the same as he always had, as though he himself were in control of his own body. Itachi almost shivers at the thought that someone can know you so well that they can mirror even the most subtle tilt of your head or jut of your hip. And although Sasori is orchestrating, it is still _their_ dance.

"Itachi!"

Itachi wordlessly turns away to assist Kisame. He is not needed here. He thinks the Cloud nin are lucky that before they die, their last glimpse of life is the exquisite art that is Sasori and Deidara together. He also thinks it is a good thing they will die because no one should be allowed to glance upon that scene and live – it is too intense, too perfect in all the unreal definitions of that word.

As he leaves he hears the silver-bright sound of Deidara's laughter.

He only belatedly realizes weeks later that the only puppet Sasori prefers to use in battle since then is Deidara and Deidara alone.

- o -

_He does not yet know if Deidara will pull through this. It is different from many of the other operations he has performed. Before, it never mattered. They would be puppets anyway, essentially lifeless and essentially his. Essentially _him_. But Sasori does not want Deidara to lose what makes him Deidara. He might as well have just let the blonde die if that were the case. So he stays up for God knows how long, ignoring Pein's summons and the rest of Akatsuki and wondering what kind of person he would encounter when Deidara finally woke up._

- o -

These are the things Deidara misses.

He misses his art. He misses the squishy way clay slides over his palms, the content contemplation as he experiments with new sculptures, with the right amount of chakra to imbue, with the soaring knowledge as it explodes that he was successful. Sasori has now become skilled enough (after painstaking hours of practice and of Deidara losing his temper over and over again) to recreate his sculptures but they are never as finely detailed, as _artistic _as Deidara would prefer. And Sasori only does it in battle. Deidara misses the pleasure of art for art's sake. (Or art for the sake of bombing the Akatsuki headquarters) It might as well be a limb torn out of him. Without command of his art, he's nothing more than a cripple.

He misses food. There's something to be said about the hedonistic pleasure of stimulating one's taste buds. He can't even remember the last meal he had before he… _changed_ which is a fucking shame because if he'd known it was going to be his last he definitely would've stolen all of Itachi's dango and eaten every last bit, consequences be damned. The kitchen is the one place in the headquarters he steadfastly refuses to go to. On missions when he sees people eating he racks his memories for the taste, texture, smell of those foods he used to know. He is horrified to discover that his memory of these is fading and he wonders that should the time come that he completely forgets the mouthwatering spiciness of curry if it would be too much to ask Sasori to put him out of his misery.

He misses sparring. Even as a genin he'd used to _love_ taijutsu, living for the moment when he could beat the living snot out of his fellow shinobi. Of course he still loved his art more but he missed the movement of sending a command to your muscles and actually being obeyed, of blocking and attacking and clashing all hot and sweaty with another person. The satisfying pleasure of sinking a kunai into yielding flesh, of making bruises flower with a well-placed punch, of jumping, leaping, running, testing and pushing the limits of strength and pushing them again. It's not quite the same when he spars with one of Sasori's puppets or with Sasori himself while the latter is controlling his moves. Not the same at all.

He misses touching Sasori. Oh Sasori can touch him all he wants now, the selfish bastard, and Deidara still welcomes that cool hand. But he wants to touch Sasori back of his own free will. He wants to press back and duel their tongues when Sasori kisses him, wants to rediscover and map out the puppetmaster's body, surprise Sasori into surrendering those little gasps when he touches a particularly pleasurable spot. Although there's something so fucking _sinful_ about the way Sasori controls him during sex, Deidara _needs_ to reciprocate. He can only be passive for so long. (_And he misses how he can wrap himself all octopus-like and cuddle into Sasori after sex_).

He misses his heart and it's really strange that he longs for an organ that he never even used to give two shits about. Deidara is used to feeling things strongly, is used to _loving_ and _hating_ and being furious and giddy and although Sasori tells him that emotion is really all in the brain and hormones, it still feels like something's missing when he does not feel the fast rhythm of _lub-dub_ every time Sasori traces his cheekbones. The puppetmaster tells him that the artificial heart is pumping just fine but Deidara hears and feels nothing and he thinks, '_I'm heartless_' and it's all so fucking hilarious he just has to start laughing.

- o -

_There are still faint traces of the paralyzing drug when Deidara's blue eye opens. Sasori sees the confusion and the then dawning horror when the blonde finds he cannot move any part of his body. Running an uncharacteristically gentle hand through the blonde hair he tries to explain as best as he can. _

"_I couldn't save your body. There was… much that the jutsu destroyed. A great portion of your flesh would have rotted so I had to excise it. Your lungs are essentially stable but I have had to replace your heart with an artificial one," Sasori pauses as it seems that every word he speaks is stabbing at Deidara. But the blonde fiercely meets his eyes and the expression urges him to continue._

- o -

"Your art is an abomination, un."

Sasori pretends he does not hear.

They sleep with Deidara cuddled scandalously close to Sasori. Sometimes Deidara wakes to Sasori's tight enough to be painful grip and desperate mutters of, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Like a sinner praying for redemption.

Deidara pretends he does not hear.

This way, they survive.

- o -

"_Your gastrointestinal tract was in tatters as well and your stomach was leaking acid so I had to do away with it. I managed to save a working portion of your liver. With the rest of your internal organs I had to… improvise and imitate most of my puppets. Somehow, the link between your nervous and muscular system was irreparably damaged and – " he stops because of the utter desperation in Deidara's face._

- o -

They do not know. How could they?

Most of them are of the opinion that Sasori has finally snapped, that Deidara's 'death' snipped the thinnest thread of a lifeline that still bound him to sanity. Kakuzu even went so far as to bring up the topic of Sasori's questionable mental state to Pein. Sasori paid him a visit that night and since then Kakuzu has said nothing at all about the topic, even when pestered by Hidan. Pein is unfazed. It's like there is some secret joke between Sasori and Pein that the others are not privy to and even Konan is a little irked by this.

Zetsu once made the mistake of entering Sasori's room without knocking or announcing himself only to find the puppeteer sitting on his bed, Deidara propped on his lap with Sasori talking to him in low murmurs. He hastily retreated to tell the rest of Akatsuki about the scene and they all nodded and quietly added one point to the tally in their heads that confirmed Sasori's insanity.

Zetsu did not see, did not hear and did not understand. Nobody did. Deidara was not a puppet. Deidara always talked back.

- o -

_In a couple of minutes, the drug has faded enough that Deidara can speak. Somewhat. "Ju-ust tell me," he wheezed. _

_Sasori is inscrutable. "Your chakra systems are still fine but the only part of your body that you have muscular control over is from your neck up. From below, you are… more puppet than human."_

- o -

They have ridiculously few things in common but this is one of them.

They are outside the Akatsuki headquarters, on a crag of rock partly hidden by thick shrubs where on a clear day one could see the most beautiful view of the sunset. There is an easel in front of them with once virgin white canvas stretched in front of it and Sasori is meticulous with the chakra strings as he guides Deidara's arms into painting the sunset.

They've had some arguments about color, of course, Deidara insisting on livening up the canvas and Sasori insisting on being absolute and exact to what they see. About lines, Deidara insisting on boldness while Sasori is all for subtlety. Somehow, it all works out.

They finish the painting and it wraps them with its poignancy and stillness.

Silence is invaded by Deidara's low, rough voice. "I hate you."

_I'll take your hatred, _Sasori does not reply. _It's close enough to love_. Even though neither of the two of them could even begin to understand what this love was.

He turns and thumbs the smooth cheek of Deidara's face, hand dropping to caress the skin of the neck and the not-quite-human body. Wood and strings make a puppet but Deidara is a flash of blue eye, is laughter and fury with all the intensity of his art, always trailed by the burnt smell of explosives. He is the personification of a blazing fire and Sasori has to wonder why his body does not burn from all that inner flame.

- o -

_It's his worst nightmare, Deidara realizes bleakly. There are some truths that his universe has always revolved around. One of these: Sasori will never turn him into a puppet. And another: he can never hate Sasori. These truths, like his humanity, are nonexistent now. _

- o -

Deidara damns Sasori every morning since he woke like this. The humiliation will never fade.

He thinks of spending eternity (until the stars burn themselves out) wholly reliant on Sasori's whims and for the first time since his 'rebirth' his eye ekes out a tear. The fact that he can still cry surprises him.

Sasori's own arms reach out from behind and pull him close. An eternity of this?

Deidara wearily closes his eye and thinks that he will endure.

- o -

1 Corinthians 13:7 "[Love] _bears_ all things, _believes_ all things, _hopes _all things, _endures_ all things."

-**ends**-

The stanza at the top was from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem, 'A Psalm of Life'. And I fail. I do not know how to write Deidara. T_T

Please review.


End file.
